


i know, you might roll your eyes at this

by singmyheart (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Cheesecake, Fluff, also 2460-done with poor people, i don't know okay, marlon brando before he got fat, thrifting, tony is a butt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:10:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To his credit, Tony manages to hide his “prepared to fake enthusiasm for this thing I’ll probably hate” face pretty well (he’s perfected it; comes with the ‘philanthropist' territory).</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know, you might roll your eyes at this

**Author's Note:**

> there's not much to this but I have a lot of feelings about these adorable little shits and money, okay.  
> title from "The Reasons" by the Weakerthans.

It starts with cheesecake.

Well, that’s something of an oversimplification, Steve will admit. What actually happens is he spends an afternoon wandering around Manhattan, trying to get a feel for it, reconcile it with the New York he remembers (the fact that he owns an iPod now notwithstanding; he’s got Glenn Miller playing the whole time anyway, which must count for something). He walks through the constant noise and endless crowds, navigates streams of cabs and tourists, and can’t imagine living anywhere but the city, can’t conceive of not seeing musicians under archways and old couples on their front stoops in the evenings. He passes a church on every other block and scaffolding and construction on the rest: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

He tries to remember that when he comes home to the tower and flops onto the couch in the common area, just sprawls out with his face mashed into the cushions and lets out a long, wordless groan at Bruce’s amused hello. “What’s the matter, Cap?”

“This _century_ ,” Steve whines. Bruce waits. “I paid seven bucks for a slice of cheesecake today.”

Bruce laughs, a genuine, if dry, grin on his face. “Them’s the breaks, I’m afraid.”

“How. Just… how.”

“I know, bit of a culture shock. It’s always the same for me when I come back from traveling, easy to forget how goddamn much everything costs here when you go without a mattress for a few weeks.” Steve groans in acknowledgement.

“Bruce, what did I tell you about breaking Steve? It’s only okay when I do it.”

“Jesus, would you stop _doing_ that – “

“The appearing-out-of-nowhere thing? If you’re not used to – “

“Shut up, Tony – “

“Oh, bite me – “

"Don't mind if I do - "

“Boys, you’re both pretty, play nice,” Bruce chastises as he and the newly arrived Tony nudge Steve upright to join him on the couch.

“Yes, mom,” they chorus; Tony rolls his eyes, but tucks his bare feet under Steve’s thigh, leans back to bite Bruce’s ear anyway.

\-----

“So, what’s Tony up to today, exactly?” Steve inquires as they pull up to their intersection, thanks the cabbie and opens the door for Bruce when he gets out.

“Nothing in particular; I tried to convince him to come, but, tragically, even my raw sex appeal couldn’t get him to stoop to something so plebeian.”

“Come to that, what are we doing? I don’t think you told me, did you?”

Bruce just smiles, wry, and sets off up the block. “We’re saving you from a nervous breakdown, Cap. Come on.”

The store they end up in is tiny enough that Steve would have missed it if he’d been alone, a hole in the wall near Little Italy, and packed to bursting: a completely random assortment of clothes, shoes, books, records, CDs, adorn racks and shelves and lie in stacks on the floor; it’s a far cry from the steel-and-glass-fronted affairs Tony frequents. It smells like dust instead of money and cologne and Steve loves it. He gapes.

“I figured that you wouldn’t shop at Barneys just because you can, now,” Bruce explains, a little nervously; he’s afraid he’s made a mistake, bringing Steve here. But Steve reaches out to squeeze his hand briefly, brush a thumb across his wrist, and Bruce is happy to be wrong.

After an hour or two that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a movie montage (Thor, inexplicably, loves _Pretty Woman_ ; Steve’s seen it enough times to appreciate the weird parallel, thanks) and a lengthy, enthusiastic conversation with the ancient shopkeeper (she’s not only technically the same age as him, but she’s a fan; he can’t really wrap his head around either) that ends with numbers exchanged and a promise to join her next weekend for bridge, they head home, arms laden with bags.

When they get in the door Tony’s bitching to “wipe your goddamn feet before you get poverty on the marble” is only half-hearted at best and stops short when Steve flourishes a garment bag at him.

“Here. We got this for you.” Bruce shakes his head and mouths ‘He did,’ at Tony behind Steve’s back.

To his credit, Tony manages to hide his “prepared to fake enthusiasm for this thing I’ll probably hate” face pretty well (he’s perfected it; comes with the 'philanthropist' territory). The black leather jacket he unearths is clearly old and worn soft around the elbows but well-cared for. He slips it on over his ratty Metallica t-shirt – and it fits him beautifully – before he notices the zippered sleeves, “Johnny” stencilled on one shoulder. “Is this… ?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, fuck. _Fuck_. Jesus Christ in a fucking kayak.”

“You like it?” Steve asks; he’s still holding his bags, full of records and books, but he’s forgotten about them.

“No,” Tony deadpans, “You got me _Marlon Brando’s fucking jacket_ from the fucking _Wild One_ and what the fuck are you talking about, do I like it. Honestly, if you were any slower you’d be going backwards. Fucking, just… come here. _Idiot_.” But it’s Steve who reaches both hands out, fists them in the jacket’s lapels and leans down to kiss him. Tony hums into his mouth, content, and Bruce presses in behind him to slip his arms around Tony’s waist, rest his chin on his shoulder.

“You’re never gonna take it off, are you?” Bruce murmurs, closes his eyes.

“Nope. No, I am not. Bury me in it. Put ‘I’ve got Marlon Brando’s fucking jacket and if you grave-rob me my superhero boyfriends will swiftly and efficiently hand you your ass, motherfucker,’ on my gravestone.” Steve smiles, cards a hand through the hair at the back of Tony’s neck. “Oh, that reminds me…”

Later, when the coffee table is strewn with forks and napkins and the remains of a cheesecake, the three of them sleep soundly, tangled together on the couch; the only light in the room is the dim glow of the arc reactor and the movies that play on until morning. Tony is already down in the lab when they wake up, but Bruce and Steve have matching, star-shaped imprints on their faces from the epaulettes on his shoulders.


End file.
